


you'll always be a stranger in a strange strange land

by bestliars



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Brooklyn, Crack, Gen, Hipsters, New York Islanders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 01:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bestliars/pseuds/bestliars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Islanders are moving to Brooklyn! You know what Brooklyn has?</p>
            </blockquote>





	you'll always be a stranger in a strange strange land

**Author's Note:**

> ah, so I had to write this. it's all teasing. It isn't meant to be mean. I live in a glass house with my Neutral Milk Hotel vinyl so I can't throw stones.

The first text he gets about the move is from P.K. It goes:

_HA HA HA HOPE YOU GET EATEN BY HIPSTERS!_

The second, third, fourth, and fifth texts are also from P.K.; The lockout is leaving him with too much free time. They read:

_Do u know who Arcade Fire are?_

_Pitchfork gives that goal a 4.6_

_I wanna see your ass in skinny jeans : D_

_north american scum 4evah!_

John does not understand what any of those things mean, except for number 4, and that is not gonna happen.

He texts back: _Yes, I’m very excited to be playing in Brooklyn. Thank you for your interest._  
There are new texts from a lot of other folks too, because the team moving to Barclays really is a big deal with serious implications. He spends more time answering those than he really wants, but it can’t be help. He’s at it so long that P.K. has time to text him back: _for real, good luck dude, but I can’t wait til people on the net photoshop your face with geek glasses and a scarf._

That is such a stupid idea, John can’t even deal. He has no intelligent response to to this idea. Fortunately this is P.K., an intelligent response is unnecessary, he can just text back _your face,_ and get on with his day.

Then he forgets about it, goes off to do hockey things, being in Switzerland things, important things, unlike all of the things P.K. is doing to stave off the lockout boredom. Last time they talked it involved a lot of working out while watching daytime TV.

They talk later, despite the time difference, because it isn’t like P.K. has scheduled time at the moment. If he’s going to be awake in the middle of the night so he can call John before practice, John can answer his phone, even though he knows they aren’t going to talk about anything important.

P.K. starts the conversation with a lot of enthusiasm. “You’re moving to Brooklyn!”

“I know.” They’ve established this.

“That is ridiculous!”

It really isn’t, but whatever. It’s a little bit strange. It’s different.

“You’re moving to Brooklyn and the Oilers might be moving to Seattle! Maybe. Who knows.”

Nobody knows, not really. They just know it’s a mess.

“Anyway,” P.K. says, obviously changing the topic, “I have a theory about the world if that happens.”

“Yeah?” This is going to be good.

“What do Brooklyn and Seattle have in common? Hipsters. The NHL is trying to court hipsters!”

That’s a remarkably absurd idea, but John kind of sees how it works?

“No, think about it,” P.K. continues. “It’s the least popular major sport. Hipsters don’t like things that are popular. Hockey is very Canadian. Hipsters like Canadians! Arcade Fire is Canadian!”

“Are you secretly obsessed with Arcade Fire?” John asks. “Because you keep talking about them.”

“No! That would be lame. Arcade Fire, seriously? Seriously, JT?”

“I dunno. You keep on talking about them.”

“Because they’re Arcade Fire. _Arcade Fire._ Like, I don’t, I can’t...Are you even Canadian?”

“Yes, I’m really Canadian. We were on the Canadian national team together. Do you remember that?”

“Course I do, it was the best. But I don’t think you understand the importance of Arcade Fire.”

“I probably don’t.”

P.K.’s sigh reverberates across the ocean. “Well, as long as you’re owning your defects.”

P.K. starts laughing; John’s pretty sure he’s being made fun of. “You’re going to be playing in front of hipsters!”

“So?”

“They’re are all going to be sitting in the back with the arms crossed, talking about how you used to be cool but now you’re overrated!’

“That doesn’t make sense.” None of this makes sense, but that statement is especially egregious. It simply isn’t something anyone would say.

“No, of course it doesn’t make sense! It’s not about anything, it’s just something hipsters say! Like ‘their first record is better,’ or ‘I liked them, but then they learned how to play.’ Asking for sense is asking for way too much.”

“Why does it matter? I mean, hipsters are still people. It’ll be fine.”

P.K. laughs at him some more. “You’re life is so hilarious. Brooklyn! _Brooklyn!_ ”

John hangs up on him, leaves for practice, and tries to forget the entire conversation.

The next night has a dream—or maybe it should be classified as a nightmare, where instead of playing hockey he has to play guitar. He’s shoved onto a stage in a strange room, the instrument strapped to his chest. He doesn’t understand music. People are staring at him, judging him from behind their thick framed black glasses. It’s terrible.

John wakes up in a bad mood and texts P.K.: _fuck brooklyn and fuck you._


End file.
